


Elven Love Poems & The Mating Habits of Griffons

by WitchyBee



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Injury, Languages and Linguistics, Light Angst, Mages, Nerdiness, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:52:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchyBee/pseuds/WitchyBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A studious elf who likes Tranquil better than most people and a fastidious mage who prefers the company of books find themselves dragged into the middle of a war they never wanted to fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the Mage-Templar War begins in earnest and the Circles are not safe anymore, even for those with good family connections who keep their heads down, Finn takes as many books from the library as he can carry, intending to travel to his parents’ estate in West Hill. But as he soon learns, it’s more dangerous than ever to be a mage.

Apostate. Rebel. It doesn’t matter that Finn has no wish to be either of these things.

He’d voted against this for a reason.

Eventually Finn is left with no choice but to sell the books so he can purchase food, or a room for the night, or bribe a coachman to keep quiet about him should anyone start asking questions. _It’s like being on the run for a crime you didn’t commit,_ he thinks, _Except there’s no way to turn yourself in or clear your name. You just run. A permanent fugitive._

He places all his hopes for a peaceful resolution in the Divine’s Conclave. Finn simply wants his old life back. Safe, clean, not exposed to the elements, surrounded by books, and all the time in the world to devote to his studies. 

He’s had enough adventures for one lifetime, thank you.

And of course, then the Conclave explodes. Divine Justinia V is dead. The Breach appears. He can’t imagine the magnitude of power required to tear a hole in the sky that size. Similar rifts start opening throughout southern Thedas, as if the Veil were made from some sort of Nevarran cheese.

So, like every other displaced refugee and desperate pilgrim, Finn resolves to make his way to Haven. If nothing else, the Inquisition offers the promise of safe shelter to all who need it, and maybe he can even help this supposed Herald of Andraste. His academic expertise might prove useful.

Finn arrives in Haven exhausted, starving, and cold, with nothing at all to his name except an untranslated anthology of elven love poems.

—————————————————

Finn is not particularly impressed with the selection in Haven’s small library. It’s mostly copies of the Chant of Light in every language still spoken in Thedas (which as a linguist is fascinating but not for long), biased accounts of history presented as objective fact, and the occasional romance novel hidden inside a dusty old copy of the Dissonant Verses.

He misses the Circle already.

There’s someone else browsing the bookshelves today. An elven woman. Her robes mark her as another former Circle mage, most likely from somewhere in the Free Marches going by the style. Finn has seen her around the village and the chantry a few times, but never quite found the courage to introduce himself.

Now she reaches for a book and he, without thinking, does the same, not even knowing which book it is. Their hands touch briefly before Finn regains his senses and drops the hand back down to his side. She pulls the book from its place on the shelf carefully, as not to damage it. A woman after his own heart.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Are you researchin’ Fereldan brown bears as well?" she asks, her accent light and lilting. Dalish, perhaps with a hint of Starkhaven.

Finn clears his throat nervously. “No, just uh...a little light reading.” _I needed an excuse to finally talk to you,_ he thinks. “I’m a research enthusiast, I like to research a bit of everything. Mainly ancient languages and Tevinter history, however.” He’s forgetting something important. _Oh right, names!_ “My name's Finn, by the way. Fereldan Circle. I’m not too keen on this whole rebellion.”

She smiles. “I’m Minaeve, head of creature research. I find weaknesses Inquisition soldiers can exploit when fightin’ dangerous beasts,” she says. “And...I didn’t vote to start a war either. I liked havin’ the templars around to keep everyone safe. But I suppose none of us asked for the Breach.”

There’s a pause, then he changes the subject, “So...why bears, exactly?”

"When the Herald returned from the Hinterlands, she was very insistent that I research the common Fereldan bear. Said it was a matter of life and death."

Finn chuckles. “That would explain the claw marks on her back.” He notices Minaeve’s questioning look and adds, “I’m also a part-time healer.”

"A man of many specialties," she says, her ears slightly red.

"Only a few."

"I should really get back to my studies, but I wouldn’t mind some company while I work. If you’d like to, anyway."

There is nothing Finn would like more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn gets to know Minaeve a bit. The Breach looms ominously overhead.

"Why did you decide to study dangerous creatures?" Finn asks. He would be the first to say that all knowledge is useful, no matter how vehemently others claim it's a waste of time to pursue. "I mean no disrespect, of course. But surely it wouldn't have had much practical application in the Circle."

"And being fluent in Ancient Tevene came in handy a lot, did it?" Minaeve wonders, incredulous.

"You'd be surprised how relevant dead languages can be." Finn thinks of the eluvian, old magic rippling across its dark surface like a drop of blood in water. The possibilities of such a discovery. Ten years ago now. Another life entirely. The varrteral's enraged screeching. And all because he'd known the Elvish word for mirror.

"I like the outdoors," Minaeve tells him. "The idea of the outdoors, anyway."

"Trust me, the outdoors is highly overrated," Finn says.

She smiles faintly, nodding in agreement. "When I was seven, I once spent the night in somebody's hayloft with a pack of stray dogs; they'd let me curl up there to keep warm. The most dangerous thing in that village were the people. I was relieved when the templars found me."

"Maker's breath..." Finn can't imagine going through an ordeal like that, especially as a young child, and it shames him.

But Minaeve merely shrugs, turning a page in her book on the vulnerabilities of bear hide. "So much of this world is only frightening because we don't understand it. When some beast is comin' at ya, glowin' red eyes and burnin' claws, it's terrifying. But once you know how it works, you can deal with it. It's just another part of the world."

"Certainly wish I had known more about varterrals before seeing one up close," Finn says.

She looks up abruptly, eyes wide, her reading forgotten. "You--you really fought a varterral? An actual living varterral?"

"It was definitely living until we had to kill the blasted thing. I've got the scars to prove it. Nothing should have that many legs."

Of course, Minaeve is curious; she wants to hear everything, and he's happy to oblige.

\-----------------------------------------

The Herald returns from Redcliffe with Grand Enchanter Fiona and her rebel mages in tow. An alliance has been forged, outraged templars and frightened pilgrims whisper. Finn and Minaeve are not pleased about this development; it feels like one more thing in this rebellion in which they have no say at all.

But beggars can't be choosers, and the Inquisition doesn't exactly have allies lining up to aid their cause.

"Will you be fightin' tomorrow?" Minaeve asks. "When the Herald closes the Breach. Or tries to close it, anyway."

"I'll do what I can, I suppose, but I'm more of a healer. I plan on staying out of the way and casting barriers. What about you?"

"I'm not very good at usin' magic to fight. I don't like to, either," she admits. "But someone has to stay here and look after the Tranquil. They don't like to deviate from their routines."

Minaeve speaks as though she admires their single-minded focus. He'd noticed that before. The Tranquil she cares for aren't a burden or an unwanted obligation to her--Minaeve seems to genuinely appreciate their company. _It's a little odd,_ Finn thinks, _but who I am to judge? I used to spend my free time in the Circle's repository talking with a cryptic Tevinter statue._

"You really care about the Tranquil, don't you?"

"They're polite, focused. I like them better than most people. Present company excluded, of course," Minaeve replies, idly pulling a frayed thread in the sleeve of her robes. "Too many mages ignore them, pretend they don't exist or act like they're not people anymore. Too many templars think hurtin' them is justified because Tranquil don't have any emotions and they never fight back or say no."

Finn has never thought of it in that way. Or very much at all, if he's completely honest. Why had he never thought of it?

"I, uh...I'm not sure what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. It's just how the world is," Minaeve says. "Promise me you'll come back."

"After the Breach is closed? Why would I leave?" One can see it from anywhere in Haven. Shimmering with unknown magic, the Fade pulsing around it like an open wound. It stands out more against the darkening sky, unnaturally beautiful. A laceration in the skin of the world.

"I mean don't die, all right?"

Finn isn't in the habit of making promises he may not be able to keep, but if it will ease her worry, he can't stop himself. "I promise I will come back."

Minaeve nods. "I'll accept that. You better be a man of your word."

Rising onto her tiptoes, she presses her lips to his cheek--a kiss that is light and lovely as her accent--before walking away. Finn is left standing there in shock. He recalls Seeker Pentaghast's stash of romance novels in the library and wonders if this is how the protagonists felt.

_Maker, I hope I can keep my promise._


	3. Chapter 3

Closing the Breach is almost too easy, so of course the Elder One sends an army of red templars to attack Haven. No one is prepared. _How do you even prepare for a bloody dragon?_

The warning bell tolls, and civilians flock to the chantry for safe harbor. Minaeve isn’t with them. She must be outside.

A man he recognizes as one of her Tranquil wards looks on, entirely unaffected by the panic around him. Finn grabs his elbow and the man turns his lifeless eyes in his direction. Tranquil don’t blink in standard intervals. It’s rather unsettling.

"Where’s Minaeve? Have you seen her?" Finn asks urgently.

"Researcher Minaeve has not returned from the apothecary," the man drawls.

Jaw tightening, Finn picks up his staff and exits the chantry, determined to find her, dragon or no.

————————————————————

Pinned down beside a wooden cart filled with highly volatile and explosive alchemical reagents, a trail of flame coming closer by the second, Minaeve frantically tries to recall every Draconology book she’s ever read. _Dragonlings remain with their mother until they reach maturity, and can consume prey up to four times their own body weight. Male dragons—drakes—never grow wing membranes like females do; instead their forelegs grow only vestigial spurs and they lose the use of their forepaws._

The great winged beast circling overhead must be female then, but it doesn’t resemble any species of dragon Minaeve is familiar with. _Once every century, when a high dragon prepares for clutching, she will go on a rampage, aggressively hunting to feed her soon-to-be hatched young._ But it’s far too unlikely that the red templars’ assault on Haven and this dragon’s sudden arrival is mere coincidence.

There is only one type of dragon that would fly unprovoked through a quiet village and leave such devastation in its wake: an Archdemon.

The heat from the approaching blaze breaks her dazed reverie. She is surprised that her leg doesn’t hurt like it should, crushed beneath such weight. Perhaps it’s due to shock. Minaeve coughs, smoke choking her lungs, and the cough becomes a sob. _A promise goes both ways and, please, Our Lady Andraste, I don’t want to die here!_

"Help me!" she cries. "I’m trapped! Please! Anyone, HELP!"

She shuts her eyes, desperate tears rolling down her cheeks. Then Minaeve hears it—footsteps crunching on the snow, running fast. She dares to open her eyes slightly, expecting to see a red templar. It’d be merciful at this point. Minaeve would much rather die by the sword than in a fiery explosion, given the choice.

But all at once that qunari most of the chantry sisters fancy—Iron Bull, was it?—lifts the weight, freeing her, and a woman helps Minaeve to her feet. She pulls her to relative safety out of the fire’s path. None of them are safe yet.

"Maker, thank you!"

"Can you walk?" the Herald of Andraste asks.

"I-I think so. Herald, what’s happening?"

"Go to the chantry. You will be safe there."

However, as soon as Minaeve takes one shaky step forward, her leg gives out and she’s left kneeling in the snow. The pain is sharp, no longer numbed.

"It seems the poor dear spoke too soon," a posh voice remarks with measured concern. _Andraste’s grace, that’s First Enchanter Vivienne! I’m crying in front of Madame de Fer!_

"MINAEVE!"

Her head snaps up. She can see a person running toward her through the darkness. Fresh tears spill from Minaeve’s eyes, but this time in joy and relief. It’s Finn—his once immaculate robes now singed and bloodstained, sweat plastering his brown hair to his forehead. He sinks to his knees before her, panting. He looks to be on the verge of crying himself.

"Your lovely robes," she manages to say, "Ruined."

"Yes," he laughs at the sheer absurdity, still catching his breath. "At least most of the blood isn’t mine." 

"I—" Minaeve winces as stabbing pain rips through her leg again. "I can’t walk. My leg—"

"Shh, it’s all right. I’ll have a proper look at it once we’re both safe." Finn helps her stand slowly and drapes one of her arms around his shoulder. She leans heavily against him, the pain subsiding a little. Minaeve remembers that she has not yet thanked her rescuers, but the Herald is already gone.

——————————————————

Minaeve’s leg is a patchwork of bruises. The flesh is tender, so Finn tries to minimize the pain he causes as he examines her. Contrary to popular belief, magic alone cannot mend soft tissue damage and fractured bones, but he does what he can. Finn casts a minor frost spell on the injury in hopes of reducing pain and swelling.

He’ll have to keep a very close eye on her. There might be severe damage beneath the skin that would not show any symptoms for hours or days, and if infection sets in—

"Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry!" orders the commander of the Herald’s military forces. "Move!"

Finn gives her an apologetic look. If only there was more he could do for her right now. The evacuation of Haven will be a long and difficult journey, and twice as hard for Minaeve.

"I’ll be fine," she assures him, a faint smile on her lips. "I just want all this to be over. First we’ve got to make sure the Tranquil get out all right. They don’t always perceive danger properly."

———————————————————

Minaeve limps carefully up the frozen incline with Finn’s support. Somewhere ahead, a dying Chancellor Roderick guides them through the treacherous mountain pass, the Herald’s advisers and inner circle walking behind him. The Tranquil move at an almost mechanical pace along the path, their eyes fixed on the horizon. Behind Minaeve and Finn, injured solders and civilians struggle to keep up. 

A signal flare illuminates the midnight sky, blindingly bright.

Silence descends over these desperate survivors, the crash of falling rocks resounding down in the valley below. It’s enough to bury the remaining red templars and hopefully give this Elder One pause, but it may have also cost them the Herald’s life. No one could survive that. Then again, in theory, no one should have been able to survive the Conclave either. Or walking physically in the Fade.

He focuses his attention on Minaeve instead. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “I will be.”

Finn can feel her shivering against him, however, so he takes off his fur-lined gloves and hands them to Minaeve. “These were a gift from my father when I passed the Harrowing. Here, put them on. If nothing else, you won’t lose fingers to frostbite.”

She frowns, brow creased. “What about you? Won’t you be cold?”

"I can use mana to keep myself warm. You’re wounded; you need all your energy for healing."

Minaeve reluctantly accepts the gloves.

————————————————————

When the flaming ruins of Haven are scarcely visible in the distance through the worsening snowstorm, Seeker Pentaghast declares that it’s safe to make camp. Fortunately, the large number of mages present means fires are kindled quickly to ward off the cold. His first priority is to find a warm place for Minaeve to rest and—most importantly—tend to her injury.

Dawn sun crests the mountains by the time an available tent is found and Minaeve, her swollen leg elevated on a mound of pillows. There are a few books piled beside her—what little he’d managed to salvage before they evacuated Haven—including the battered book of elven poems.

"No standing or walking unless I say otherwise." Finn does his best impression of Senior Enchanter Wynne’s gentle yet authoritative tone. "Healer’s orders."

"You need to sleep, Finn," she says in concern. "You have already done more than enough for me."

"I know, but Mother Giselle needs every healer who’s able to—"

"You can’t help anyone runnin’ yourself ragged like this," Minaeve insists.

Finn sighs, too exhausted even to argue. He drags a hand through his hair. “Of course you’re right.”

Everyone waits for a sign. For something to happen. Anything. Whispered prayers to Andraste. They all hope for the Herald’s safe return, afraid that they might have doomed her when the mountain fell.

"Finn?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," Minaeve says quietly.

"For what?"

Her eyes drift closed. “For keeping your promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

Late afternoon on the first day since the Elder One attacked brings no news of the Herald. She is still missing, presumed dead. Sister Leliana’s carrier ravens arrive in a flurry a black wings with delayed messages tied to their legs. One of them, as it turns out, is from his parents in South Reach.

> Our darling Florian,  
>  We have heard many things about this Inquisition and its supposed Herald of Andraste. Is it true they have shown support for the mages’ rebellion? It must be difficult for you there. Stay safe, my son, and if you need anything, you have only to ask. Your father sends his love.  
>  Love,  
>  Mother

He reads the letter three times, then decides to compose a reply. His parents will likely have heard rumors about Haven before receiving this letter, but he doesn’t want them to worry for any longer than they have to.

> Mother and Father,  
>  Haven was attacked last night by red templars under the Elder One’s command. And a dragon—an Archdemon, some say. I’m safe, unharmed. My friend has a broken leg. So many people are dead. We don’t know where the Herald is, or if she’s alive.

Finn’s penmanship is atrocious, but he can’t keep his hand from shaking. He crumples up the paper and starts again.

> Dear Mother and Father,  
>  The Inquisition had to evacuate last night. I’m safe, unharmed. My friend has a broken leg but otherwise she’s fine. The Inquisition is currently camped in the Frostbacks. I will write to you again as soon as I know more. Hopefully with good news.  
>  Love,  
>  Finn  
>  P.S. Yes, the Herald indeed allied with the rebel mages. I was not happy about it, but they did help to close the Breach. I don’t think Fiona is likely to become another Uldred.

Finn sighs deeply, resting his head in his hand. He’d spent a wearying day helping Mother Giselle and the other healers tend to the injured. Soldiers with deep lacerations from the corrupted blades wielded by red templars. A few of the unfortunate souls had also been exposed to the toxic lyrium; the infection got into their wounds and spread rapidly through the bloodstream. There is nothing to be done for them.

And there had been the young Fereldan—one of Sister Leliana's scouts judging by her singed armor—who managed to escape a flaming house, but not without severe burns and a voice raspy from smoke inhalation. Finn had eased her pain, healing the damage as best he could and applying a cool salve to the pink, shiny skin. A man sat beside her the whole time, clutching his lover’s hand. He kissed her knuckles and promised they would go to Ansburg together once she recovered. Apparently it’s beautiful there.

Eventually Mother Giselle had pulled Finn aside and firmly suggested that he take the rest of the day off.

"You should rest, young man," she’d said gently, "And perhaps visit your friend."

————————————————-

He keeps Minaeve company while she is laid up in bed. They discuss books, their research, anything but the previous night’s events. A soldier loans them a pack of cards, and Minaeve laughs when Finn admits that he has no clue how to play Diamondback. She offers to teach him the rules.

"One bit of advice," she says, "Never play this with a Tranquil. They don’t have any tells at all."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Finn chuckles. ”So, which Circle are you from?”

Minaeve blinks, caught off guard. “Does it matter? The Circles are gone.”

"It’s a standard question when two mages meet out in the real world."

"Technically I’m still an apprentice, not a mage."

"Well, technically I’m still an heir," he replies, squinting at his cards. "But that rings pretty hollow now, too."

When she answers the question, Minaeve’s voice is so quiet he almost doesn’t hear, “Kirkwall.”

Finn has heard the horror stories coming out of the Free Marches, of course. Everyone has. Knight-Commander Meredith’s bloody massacre through the Gallows. Mages treated like prisoners—locked in rooms no bigger than cells. Blood magic and rumors of blood magic running rampant. The Rite of Tranquility administered without consent or necessity.

"It wasn’t as bad as everyone thinks," Minaeve adds. there is an edge to her voice and she won’t meet his eyes. "Not for me, anyway. I’m not ignorant—I know some templars abused their power. Maybe it’s wrong of me to see them all as protectors, but…I just…"

"You stayed out of the way," Finn says gently. "Kept your head down. Looked after the Tranquil. No one noticed you."

A slight nod. “I was terrified of the Harrowing. I thought about volunteerin' for the Rite instead. Perhaps they would have forced me, anyway. I don’t know. Then Knight-Commander Meredith tried to Annul the Circle and that rebel mage blew up the chantry...”

"Anders. I knew him," he murmurs gravely. "Not well, of course. We didn’t exactly have much in common."

"Oh. Well, after that I ran. Took as many of the Tranquil with me as I could. We barely got out of the city in time." She draws a shaky breath. "I suppose the rest is history."

Finn reaches for her hand, grasping it tightly, the game of Diamondback forgotten. He feels terrible for bringing up this subject. Nothing more needs to be said.

Outside the tent, they hear joyful cries that cut the night. It can mean only one thing. Finn knows what has happened even before someone tells him—the Herald has returned, nearly frozen but breathing. Suddenly there is hope that this all might somehow be worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. Apologies.

_If I never see the Frostbacks again, I will die happy,_ Finn thinks. The Herald is leading them north to an ancient fortress abandoned long ago. Skyhold. It will serve as the Inquisition’s new headquarters. Finn won’t object to putting strong walls between himself and their various enemies. He certainly would not mind a long bath, either.

Finn had done what he could in the past few days to heal Minaeve’s leg, the warm blue light of his magic slowly encouraging her bones and tendons to repair themselves. The swelling has gone down significantly, and she says it doesn’t hurt as much, but the limb is weak and Minaeve still requires assistance to walk.

"Tarasyl’an Tel’as," he recalls. "The Ancient Elvish name for Skyhold. Translates roughly to ‘place where the sky is kept’ or, perhaps more accurately, ‘the place where the sky was held back.’ I remember seeing references to it in obscure historical accounts. Nothing very specific, though."

Minaeve is quiet for a moment, considering his words. “What about Corypheus? Ever heard of him before?”

Finn shakes his head. “No,” he admits regretfully. “But as soon as the Inquisition gives us access to a decent library, I aim to change that.”

She hums in agreement.

————————————————————

The Herald holds an ornate sword aloft and accepts the title of Inquisitor. It isn’t a surprise, really. Who else could have led the Inquisition? She is their salvation.

He’s desperate to examine the hand Anchor mark for himself; a unique magical anomaly like that is without precedent. The odds of it having not killed her in an instant were extremely low, let alone actually receiving a beneficial mutation—the ability to control Fade rifts—and yet the Inquisitor had beat those odds. Multiple times by now. Sadly, the Herald’s elven arcane adviser seems to have a monopoly on studying the Anchor.

"That sword is too big for her," Minaeve comments beside him. "How can she even lift it? Looks so heavy."

"Good question."

Commander Cullen’s voice rings out across the courtyard, “Inquisition, will you follow?”

A cheer goes up from the gathered crowd. They join in, naturally.

"Will you fight?!"

More cheering, but this time Finn and Minaeve are a little less enthusiastic. They aren’t soldiers, after all.

"Will we triumph?!"

The Inquisition shouts with renewed hope, smiling despite the losses they have suffered recently and the exhausting trek to Skyhold. 

"Your leader, your Herald, your Inquisitor!" the Commander bellows as the giant sword is thrust into the air. _Perhaps it’s enchanted to feel lighter than it actually is._

————————————————

Skyhold is an impressive fortress, but it has seen better days. Construction and repair work is now underway. Finn is awoken every morning by the delightful chorus of hammers striking nails and the chief foreman, a dwarf with a beard almost down to his knees, barking orders and swearing harshly at his workers.

Personally, he’s just grateful to be safe and relatively warm.

Minaeve has set up her research table in Skyhold’s atrium library, where she and her Tranquil assistants examine weapon fragments scavenged from enemies and test the resistances of different creatures to a variety of stimuli. The library itself consists of empty shelves yet to be stocked with books. No doubt Ambassador Montilyet has already ordered a large shipment of reference material from Val Royeaux.

Finn comes across another scholarly mage there one evening, stroking his chin and frowning in dismay at the sorry state of the library.

"Sad, isn’t it? All I want to do is learn more about this corrupted magister we’re fighting, but alas, not a useful tome in sight." He turns toward him. The man’s handsome face causes Finn to suddenly be very aware of his myriad insecurities.

Finn nods. It is very sad. “Couldn’t you have books delivered from Tevinter?”

The man is momentarily taken aback, but then he smiles. “My reputation precedes me, I see.”

"Your accent," Finn says. "I’m a linguist, and an expert on Tevinter history. I’d heard rumors that a magister had joined the Inquisition, but obviously they weren’t true. The scion of House Pavus is an Altus, not a magister."

Dorian laughs. “Aren’t you a clever one! I have met few here in the south who are as discerning. I expect you and I shall get along famously.”

Finn expects he’s probably right about that. He’s barely spoken to anyone else other than Minaeve since he fled the Circle, and as much as he enjoys her company, it’s occasionally nice to meet new people.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my fumbling attempt at Elvish poetry.

A vigil is held at dusk for those lost in the siege on Haven. People crowd into Skyhold’s garden, lit candles in their hands like tiny beacons in the gathering darkness. Mother Giselle stands before them, head bowed as she recites a few verses from the Chant of Light.

“My Maker, know my heart / Take from me a life of sorrow / Lift me from a world of pain / Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. O Maker, hear my cry: / Seat me by Your side in death / Make me one within Your glory / And let the world once more see Your favor.”

Finn looks at his candle’s small flame, thinking about the vacant spaces left in the throng of mourners, and the people that are no longer here to fill them.

“Draw your last breath, my friends, / Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky./ Rest at the Maker’s right hand, / And be Forgiven,” Mother Giselle concludes.

A brief moment of silence follows, after which the crowd slowly begins to disperse. Some make their way to the chantry, where they leave their candles at Andraste’s feet and offer prayers for the dead and their loved ones. Others head to The Herald’s Rest for a drink, toasting fallen comrades. Finn feels suddenly out of place. He returns to the library.

—————————————-

When the crates of books finally arrive, it’s like Saturnalia morning at the Tower, except now there are no resentful apprentices around to ruin it with their incessant whining ( _"No fair! Flora got better presents than we did!"_ ) Of course, in their defense, it really wasn't fair, but try explaining socioeconomic disparities to a seven-year-old, and neither was it Finn's fault that his family had wealth and political sway enough to pull some strings for their only child.

Skyhold’s library is filled with the wonderful aroma of paper and ink, as a library should be, and he feels a sharp pang of homesickness. Finn realizes that he is home, though, if the Circle is truly gone for good—a future the Inquisitor evidently supports. He couldn’t go back to West Hill without inviting more scandal and shame than his parents already endure for having a mage son whom they refuse to disown.

 _Besides, it’s not so bad here_ , Finn thinks as he watches Minaeve press her nose between the pages of a book and inhale deeply.

“The best scent in the world,” she sighs.

He nods in agreement, smiling fondly at her.

Dorian is watching them both with an amused expression. “I do hate to interrupt you lovebirds,” he says. “But there are many books here to catalogue, you know.”

Minaeve and Finn look at each other.

“We’re, uh, w-we’re not—” they both stammer simultaneously, their faces flushed, “—together.”

“No? Could have fooled me, the way you two carry on.” Dorian shrugs. “I thought it was rather sweet. Two reclusive researchers finding solace in one another. Shame it isn’t true, then.”

They set to work unpacking the books one crate at a time and organizing them on the shelves according to Dorian’s rigorously meticulous system. _The Collected Sermons of Brother Vidulas_ falls under Arcane Studies—despite the scholar not having been a mage—as would _Beyond the Veil: Spirits and Demons by Enchanter Mirdromel_ , and _A Dissertation on the Fade as a Physical Manifestation_ by Senior Enchanter Mareno. _Edicts of the Black Divine_ belongs in the History section along with _The Exalted Marches: An Examination of Chantry Warfare_ , of course.

Occasionally, Finn catches her eye just for a moment, and he wonders if Minaeve is perhaps thinking about Dorian’s words, too.

He recalls a verse from the book of elven poems and recites it quietly, “Asha’arla, falon ar lath / Tel asha’arla, ma vhenan him banal’ras / ma enasalinen dorf’tel nehn / ir isala ma sahlin, asha’arla.”

“That’s Elvish. I recognize some of the words,” Minaeve says, her eyes wide. “I didn’t know you could you speak Elvish.”

“The ancient elves built a civilization steeped in magic long before the Tevinter Imperium’s mages figured out how to conjure a wisp,” Finn says. “And their language is beautifully complex. It’s a shame so much of it has been lost.”

“Can you translate it?” she asks. “That poem?”

“Ah, well, I suppose the closest translation would be, um…” He rubs the back of his neck nervously, trying not to blush. “Woman who is my home, friend that I love / without the woman who is my home, my heart becomes shadow / my victories are grey and joyless / I need you here in this moment, woman who is my home.”

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she giggles. “I had no idea you were such a romantic, Finn.”

“It’s not me; blame your ancestors. They were a romantic people. You wouldn’t believe how many Elvish words contain the monomorphemic stem—the root—for heart or love.”

“We’re even more romantic now,” Minaeve tells him. “The Dalish romanticize our forgotten history because all they have is stories.”

It occurs to Finn that he doesn’t know where she came from before the Circle, before Kirkwall. “Are you Dalish?”

She picks at her fingernails nervously. “No. Not anymore, anyway. I was, but—my clan already had three mages. They couldn’t risk another, so they sent me away. On my own. I was seven years old.”

“Maker,” he breathes. She has endured more hardships than he can imagine. She is so much braver than him, so much stronger. “I thought the Dalish valued magic highly. How could they abandon a child in the wilderness?”

“I’ve been askin’ myself that question every day since the templars found me, starvin’ and cold, and took me to the Circle. No two clans are alike. I’ll probably never know the reason, but it doesn’t matter, really,” she sighs. “Any excuse they could give wouldn’t justify it.”

Finn laces his fingers through hers. “Kirkwall. Your clan. Haven. I wish I could change all the awful things that have happened to you.”

“You know, I wouldn't change any of it,” she says with a faint smile, "I like my work, helpin' save lives in a small way. I like where I am now. And who I'm with.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have mixed feelings about this chapter. Not sure I completely like how it turned out.

>   
>  Dear Mother and Father,
> 
> I apologize for the briefness of my last letter. A great deal had happened. I was exhausted and not quite myself. I hope you haven’t been worrying too much on my account. I am safe. The Inquisition has set up operations in a fortress in the Frostbacks—Skyhold.  
>  At any rate, we know our enemy now; he is a darkspawn calling himself Corypheus who claims to be one of the ancient magisters responsible for the Blights. He is definitely reponsible for the deaths at the Conclave, and at Haven.  
>  I know what you’re thinking, but coming home isn’t an option. Corypheus threatens the world. I cannot just walk away from this if there is anything I can do to help the Inquisition. I’m sorry. I love you both.
> 
> Your son,
> 
> Finn  
> 

He sets the letter aside and returns to perusing a dusty old copy of the _Fortikum Kadab_ , so far finding no mention of a magister named Corypheus. Not that Finn is particularly surprised; Corypheus translates from Ancient Tevene as Conductor, perhaps meaning conductor of the ritual that allowed him and his fellow priests to enter the Fade physically? Therefore, either Corypheus isn’t his real name, or fate has an incredible sense of irony.

Finn’s eyes stray from his reading, across the room to where Minaeve is observing a sample of sharp hyena teeth in a petri dish, writing meticulous notes in her charmingly illegible hand. When she looks up from her work and notices him watching her, Minaeve smiles and heads over. She still walks with a noticeable limp, but at least she can move about on her own now.

“Fancy a break?” the elf suggests. “It’s a nice day. I thought we could have our tea up on the ramparts.”

“Outside?” Finn says with distaste.

She laughs. “A little sun and fresh air won’t kill you, you know.”

“It might.”

But of course he agrees, sparing one last glance at the letter for his parents. He will deliver it to the rookery later. As they are exiting the library, however, Finn is suddenly halted when a pair of small arms wrap tightly around his waist.

“Finn!” an excited voice gasps in joyful disbelief. “It’s really you!”

He looks down and sees a dwarven woman hugging him. “Dagna?”

She pulls away from the embrace, grinning cheerfully. “That’s me, the one and only Arcanist! I’m so glad to see you. After the Circle fell apart, I thought—well, I heard about the Conclave and rogue templars hunting mages in the wilderness. I hoped you’d managed to reach your family. But here you are, helping the Inquisition, too!”

“It’s good to see you again, Dagna,” Finn says, and it truly is. The war hasn’t taken everything he cares about, after all. “Oh, this is Minaeve,” he adds.

“Hi there!” Dagna shakes the researcher’s hand with enthusiasm. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I need to get back to the undercroft before something...explodes. Bye!”

The dwarf races off toward the main hall as quickly as she had appeared.

“Who was that, exactly?” Minaeve asks.

“An old friend of mine from the Circle, and the most brilliant magical theorist I have ever known.”

———————————————-

Minaeve and Finn blink several times as their eyes adjust to the harsh wintry light of late afternoon. There is a chill in the air, but even Finn must admit it’s refreshing to get away from the library’s dusty gloom once in a while.

They pick a quiet spot on the ramparts, one with infrequent patrols and a stunning view of the snow-capped peaks that surround Skyhold, and make themselves comfortable. A small pot of tea sits cooling between them, along with a plate of assorted breads and cheeses.

“I saw the Champion of Kirkwall yesterday,” Minaeve remarks. “I wanted to say...somethin’ to her. I don’t know. But I lost my nerve.”

“She’s really here? I figured it was just a rumor.”

“It’s true. Varric Tethras knows her. He’s a Kirkwaller, born and raised,” she says. “They’re best friends. You haven’t read his _Tale of the Champion_?”

“Not my kind of literature,” Finn replies.

After a pause, she changes the subject.While they drink their tea, Minaeve tells him about a thesis she had been writing before the rebellion broke out in Kirkwall.

“You...don’t believe griffons are extinct?”

“I think it is one possibility. Take dragons, for example,” she continues. “The Nevarrans hunted them to the point of extirpation—a localized extinction, when a species disappears from its original habitat. It’s certainly a step toward full extinction, but as the recovering dragon population shows, the two terms are not synonymous.”

Finn considers this as he spreads some butter onto a crust of bread.“All right, I see the distinction. But the last known griffons were bred and kept in captivity. Isn’t that an important factor?”

Minaeve nods. “Exactly. The griffons died out shortly after the Fourth Blight. The Grey Wardens might keep records of what happened in their archives, but they are a secretive order. Maybe for good reason, in this case.”

“What do you mean?”

“A whole taxon wiped out in such a short period of time?” Minaeve sips her tea, expression grim. “It could have been disease, or some other cause. I doubt it was a natural occurrence, though. Griffons were extraordinary creatures and they deserved better.”

“Well, perhaps a few did survive.”

“If I find any evidence to support it, you’ll be the first to know.”

“We could go to Weisshaupt Fortress together,” Finn ventures, hoping to raise a smile. “They would have to listen to the Inquisition’s chief biologist.”

“Biologist?”

“Yes. The study of living organisms. I made it up,” he says with a shrug. “I could be your assistant.”

“Or my historical advisor,” Minaeve suggests. “It sounds a bit more dignified.”

They laugh, smiling genuinely for the first time since the destruction of Haven, and all at once Finn realizes: _I’m falling for her_. He has never felt this way before about anyone but he just knows; he doesn’t need a book to tell him what it means.


End file.
